Godric's Gryffindor
by The Lurking Writer
Summary: This tale is a recount of one small event in Godric's life, as told by the great sorcerer himself, with the aid of a mysterious quill... Please rate & review...


**Title:** Godric's Gryffindor

**Author:** The Lurking Writer

**Disclaimer**: Harry Potter and all related characters, names etc are property of J.K. Rowling, all publishers concerned and Warner Brothers. No money is being made from this, and no copyright infringement is intended. It is the intention of the author to create a full-length (novel / epic sized) story based on this tale, and therefore the author wishes it that no-one take any elements from this story without express and prior written permission of the author. The things owned by the author are the plot and any names not featured in the official Harry Potter books or movies.****

**Summary: **Godric was a wise and powerful wizard, having loved and lost many friends in battle, fighting fantastical magical beasts and dark magi. By far his greatest achievement was to unite the wizarding world under one banner - Knowledge is power, true power is the gift of wisdom - the gift of wisdom comes from Learning. Thus, with the three most powerful witches and wizards in that time, Hogwarts School of Wizardry was born.

This tale is a recount of one small event in Godric's life, as told by the great sorcerer himself, with the aid of a mysterious quill... read on and discover just how the school might have gained its motto; how a horde from the deepest shadows of England faced a superior enemy and somehow managed to stay alive; and just why is it Godric became known as Godric Gryffindor...

All this is wrapped together in a blend of witty humour and vivid imagery. Just ask yourself one question: what would you do, if faced with someone wielding a tree root?

**Rating:** PG / PG-13

**Word Count:** 2388

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**Author's Note:** Please, feel free to rate and review this story ~ I welcome all constructive criticisms and opinions. Let me know what you think of this story, of the imagery, my writing style… anything you like or hate about it - tell me…

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Godric sat heavily upon a three-legged stool, the sword resting across his knees, his hat positioned jauntily on his head in the style of somewhat older wizards who cared not for the fashions of the young.  
  


Before him lay reams of delicate, but yellowing, parchment. Some sheaves were curled at the corners (we would call it "dog-earing," but that phrase had not yet come into being) and more were covered in the blotchy splattering of expensive ink.  
  


Attentively and with utmost care and wariness, the Fourth Founder of Hogwarts School of Wizardry* unravelled a painstakingly swathed bundle.

* _Witches would not be admitted til after Salazar's desertion, which fortunately had also not yet occurred._

From within burst a furious blast of graceful light shining forth and illuminating the dark, circular study, glinting off the sundry weapons, shields and wine gourds lining the shelves.  
  


The Golden Quill quivered visibly with barely restrained magicks. In the gnarled fingers of its steward, the Quill was able to pluck images, memories and even thoughts from the mind and record them all on any surface within reach (similar to a Quick Quotes Quill, but with much more respect for accuracy and truth).  
  


Godric selected a recent sheet, one mostly unfilled excluding the dust and ash from the nearby fire.  
  


One might ask what a powerful and wise wizard may well be doing with a Quill when he should, in theory, have been teaching prentice warlocks, or securing the battlements against invading Muggles or barbarians.  
  


The answer, obviously, involved the word "writing."  
  


This, among other things, is an account of what Godric and the Quill were now committing to word: 

*NB:  Due to the nature of the quill, and the age of the document, it has been necessary and vital to both alter the perspective (point of view) and to include apt phrases from Modern times. Also, due to Godric's advanced age and questionable education, structure, spelling (of the word kind) and grammar were not his forté. 

~*~ ~*~ ~*~ ~*~ ~*~ ~*~ ~*~ ~*~ ~*~ ~*~ ~*~ ~*~ ~*~ ~*~ ~*~ 

…and he had to admit it - they were ferocious adversaries. His followers were an alarming horde from the innermost shadows of the heath, right from Paige Blackfoot to Ballios Smithy (who actually was a woman in disguise – the beard, sadly, was real).  
  


Having grown up on windswept moorland, Godric was utterly prepared for the vicious and biting gale that battered and barged its way through the throng of warring warlocks (and witch) like a drunken three-legged goat eyeing the last batch of strewn hay in the barn.  
  


To say things were wet and cold would be to depict the Battle of Hastings as a schoolyard dispute (not that schools – or even yards – had been invented in Godric's time).  
  


Something the wily wizard - for this man was no uncouth commoner - had not been primed for, was the utter extent of redheaded Scots. The barbarians (there simply being no other word for the disorganized rabble – mainly due to it being the only word they didn't take offence at *) were a raucous mishmash who partook of vast quantities of alcohol and a strange sport involving the tossing of large trees over short distances. Quite what this sport symbolised, or how it began, no one down to the last sheep** knew.  
  


_*_ _Many a tongue had been rent from its owner's mouth for uttering, "My, you're certainly a group of wild men." The Scots you see, weren't terribly perceptive at spotting the missing "-".)_ __

** _In Godric's time many a warlock had incurred the wrath of Mrs. Warlock after a night out on the Village._ __

Wands were a bit of a luxury in the Dark Ages (so called because someone had inadvertently cursed the Sun, causing it to shed slightly less light than before. It wasn't a particularly good spell, and only lasted the month of November, but the name stuck for a few centuries or so) and as such, most people got by with the aid of the odd twig or scythe. The masses these days had an unnatural curiosity for scythes, possibly owing to the advances in harvesting techniques, or more likely due to the rising popularity of Death (He features quite heavily in later chapters).  
  


Some believed shovels were the way forward, and one predominantly nutty personage believed, " _you can solve all o' yer probblemons wyth a shovel, truste me _." Personally Godric much preferred a rake, but that wasn't the matter at hand.  
  


The matter in question was how in the Great Sorcerer's Name he was going to defeat MacBoon & clan, thus winning the wager with Salazar, with a ragtag motley crew of people who thought that battle was just a nice little village you visited every summer.  
  


He had no doubts about his own magical prowess for Salazar - to this day - still had the intermittent jitter in his left foot, and knew that as a swordsman he was unrivalled (owing to the distinct lack of trained fighters wealthy enough to have tenure of their own turnip, let alone a blade).  
  


The Horde* were an unknown quantity in his equations. Well, actually, "unknown," was something Godric wished were true – he knew all too well their capabilities (or more accurately, the lack thereof).  
  


* The name had not been, and never would be, presented to the fellowship for fear it might somehow insult them – their use of the English language was rather limited to common prose. For example such words as "bugger," "sheep," and "beer," were often uttered in times where other, more appropriate words were called for. **

** These words shall not be included in this, or any other form of written lore for reasons the author wishes to keep to himself (and the Quill of course). 

They had as much chances of discovering a live Heffalump as they had of surviving the after-effects of a mêlée against the Scots, leaving with their skins still firmly attached to their bones.  
  


Godric had done his best to tutor them, but it was quite apparent that most had not been in control of their senses whilst he'd been teaching them. He vowed that if he lived to tell the tale of this day, he'd return to Rowena, Helga and Salazar in the Hollow and pitch to them the idea of a "School." Of course, the word "school," was not something he had thought of – that was Rowena's invention – but the concept was solely his.  
  


He habitually speculated how Merlyn had managed to muddle through with one apprentice, let alone dozens. Arthur must have been one hell of a quiet spirit.  
  


'Come to think of it,' Godric thought, whilst steadying his steed, 'He must _still_ be a quiet spirit, unless of course the legendary king had actually discovered the Holy Grail.'  
  


Godric, being wise beyond his years, was content to live his life in the full knowledge that one day he would be released from this mortal coil, for Death was not something that filled his dreams.  
  


All too soon (literally, for he'd not anticipated the attack starting for at least a dozen more minutes) the chief Scots face became a mere brim around a red, tonsil-vibrating shriek.  
  


The breach had been entered. 

~*~ ~*~ ~*~ ~*~ ~*~ ~*~ ~*~ ~*~ ~*~ ~*~ ~*~ ~*~ ~*~ ~*~ ~*~ 

Godric lifted the Quill gingerly from the parchment. Whispering mutely, the spell dried the ink instantly. He drew a new page from the stack.  
  


Godric remembered the events not yet written vividly. So intense were the memories, he conjured a barrel of mead and called a wine gourd to him. He'd never quite got the hang of quaffing*, somehow, because he always seemed to drink more than he spilt.

* Lit. _Quaffing essentially means to, "swig deeply, often whilst spilling half the drink over yourself."_ __

The purely medicinal draught had the intended effect and also steadied his nerves. Holding the Quill once more, he focused his mind on the untainted facts and not the blood-spattered details that so made a first-rate war tale.

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Assuming one is of sufficient intelligence, or has heard many a notion about battle, Godric performed what is known as an "about-turn" and galloped in an Easterly direction, perpendicular to that of the Scots.  
  


Bounding along the line of ill-prepared peasantry, he shouted orders that would have fallen on deaf ears had he not imbued his voice with a  _Pellere Vigorosus_  spell.  
  


After what seemed like a lifetime, the mass of yowling Scots collided horrifically with Godric's Men (and Woman).  
  


The first to fall were surprisingly of a redheaded disposition for Ballios Smithy was a wicked hand with a broomstick, and there went Wulfric Weathergloom, with his shockingly handy tree root, cannoning mercilessly into the throng – many a bruised body fell victim to the stunning blows.  
  


In the midst of this, Godric and his horse were bizarrely separated in a chain of events culminating in a loss of dignity and respect for the Scots' second-in-command, Malcolm Gibson McBryde. The war paint had merged with the sweat pouring from his brow, creating a wildly garish mishmash of blue and black.  
  


In an instant, the colour of his cheeks was no longer the pre-eminent problem he was faced with.  
  


Godric had withdrawn the sword from its scabbard. In the pale light of the autumnal day the sword positively sang with inner might and power - no sword like this had ever been forged by man, and this would remain so for all infinity. **Gryffindor** hummed faintly as Godric tested its balance. In short order the blade had danced merrily before the very eyes of Godric's opponent.  
  


As McBryde collapsed to the muddy ground with a dull thud, Godric and **Gryffindor** had already moved on, in search of their next target. In seconds the tide of the battle had turned, and Godric and the Horde were on the rise against their foul smelling* foes. 

* _Compared to the Horde, the Scots were like cesspits against Roman Baths. Compared to modern day wizards, the Horde reminded you of bogs against the heavenly perfume of moonbeams on dew._

With neither warning nor premonition, "Hairy" Angus MacBoon cast a shadow over the intrepid hero of this story.  
  


Godric was hit by a force similar to a ton of bricks (bricks were yet to be invented also. Godric was thankful it wasn't a ton of shingle though, for that got in all the wrong kind of places and in the long-term – if there indeed was one – caused more damage).  
  


Whipping through his mind, like a banshee riding the legendary Shadowfax (Lord of all horses), a memory of a future event echoed agonizingly back through time.  
  


Godric's mind had been ordered long before such events as those happening to him at this point, and as such, he knew what to expect with the Farseeing. It had occurred once before, back at the Hollow with Rowena. He had seen the birth of a boy with sapphire eyes that glimmered with the hint of things to come.  
  


Now he saw that same boy, only much older and wizened, standing in the Hall of a great castle. Around him were hundreds of young people, each wearing black, pointed hats, similar to Godric's own, but much smaller.  
  


The image faded as MacBoon brought down an axe through the air Godric's head had previously occupied.  
  


With an ethereal radiance, axe head and sword collided, spewing forth spark and shrapnel. **Gryffindor** writhed and screeched beneath the brute strength and weight of the colossal Scot. Time, as it so often did in moments such as this, slowed down to a serene stroll. Godric's left hand drew back, swung around and connected with MacBoon's wrist – the crack of knuckle against bone echoed loudly in Godric's mind. The combatants drew apart.  
  


In a movement so swift it was beyond the speed of sight, MacBoon had whipped his wand in a scything motion and mutely uttered a spell. Godric tried to avoid it, **Gryffindor** tried to defend against it, but in the end, Godric lay broken upon the soaked earth; a wicked scar, tinged with whiteness, marred his otherwise plain face.  
  


MacBoon wandered lazily towards his fallen adversary. Gently nudging Godric with his booted toe, to check for sign's of life, he smiled openly. He raised his weapon high above his head, and brought it sweeping downwards.  
  


**Gryffindor** called out, rose up to meet it's deadly foe and, with a shriek of stressed forces, the sword shattered the axe blade into thousands of metallic shards that pitted the mud and surrounding masses with bloody craters.  
  


MacBoon laid momentarily subdued half-a-dozen steps away, whilst Godric steadily pulled himself to his feet. With a roar reminiscent of beasts not yet discovered in this time, **Gryffindor** swung Godric's arm up and around in a ring, and embedded itself barely more than a thoughts-breadth from the Scots treasured possessions.  
  


"Sonorous," bespoke the victorious wizard, lofting **Gryffindor** high above his head.  
  


The Sun chose that moment to peak out from behind the handy cloud it had found, and with that, glorious sunbeams flowed over the sodden landscape. Laughter rang out and one by one, all, who had fallen, arose.  
  


"Let this be a lesson to you! Never Tickle A Sleeping Dragon!" roared Godric, his voice carrying far and wide, reaching even the hardest of hearing – who just happened to be Paige Blackfoot, standing within striking distance of Godric himself.  
  


"Quietus," Godric whispered. Gazing at the downed Scot, he extended a gloved hand. MacBoon took it.  
  


"So, that's what you do for fun in bonnie Scotland is it, Angus?" questioned Godric.  
  


"Och no Laddie! This were just a warm-up. Wait til we get a few good drinks in us, then we'll show you the meaning of fun!"

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Smiling wistfully, Godric once more incurred the drying spell and placed the newly covered parchment on the top of the second pile, on the western edge of the desk.  
  


Glancing one last time that evening at the Golden Quill, he wondered what that sapphire-eyed 'boy' would one day think of "**Godric's Gryffindor**."

~*~ _Finis_ ~*~


End file.
